


Here is Hawke

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 08:31:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18007427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: Fenris is accustomed to fightingformages, notwiththem.





	Here is Hawke

**Author's Note:**

> **Big bold reminder that I don't own Dragon Age or any of its content and characters, I just play in the sandbox BioWare created.**
> 
>  
> 
> Please heed the additional tag - I don't think the contents of this little thing warrant the tag of "graphic" violence, and though this takes place during a fight mention of violence is brief.

Here is a man with the body of a farmer turned killer, hands raised to cultivate life now twisted to end it.  Here is the smile of a man once gentle, gone savage in its snarl and fury.  Here is the muscle of a laborer made fighter, yelling his challenge and catching the force of a warrior's swing on the shaft of his staff, focusing crystal glowing as bright as his eyes burn.

Fenris is accustomed to fighting  _for_ mages, not  _with_ them.  He knows one false step, one stumble, one laming wound is a liability, a drag,  _unacceptable_.  He  _expects_ punishment and the cold, cruel touch of fear as magic rips through the lyrium brands, bleeds them dry until he's an empty husk of himself.  He expects the  _wrath_ of a Master betrayed, to be left crawling in the mud and begging forgiveness and healing.

But no, Hawke is no Magister.  Hawke is no-one's Master.  He is but a man and mage, born and forged in the hardship of poverty and a persecution Fenris hadn't believed existed beyond Tevinter's borders.  Hawke is a  _friend_ , throwing his considerable bulk into the fray to hold a defensive line until Fenris can drag himself to safety, gulping down one potion and pouring another over the gaping wound in his calf.  He's still panting from the pulsing shock of it, clawing at dirt and mud and blood to keep his fingers from the white-hot sparks around the edges knitting flesh back together in nauseating ribbons, when Hawke deals the finishing blow.  A fireball to the face to stun, and the follow-up of the bladed end of his staff slashing a yawning smile across unguarded throat.

Hands on him, under his arms,  _bracing_ him as Hawke hefts him upright.  And Hawke's voice a ragged rasp of  _"come on come on come on!"_ in his ears.  Fenris gets his feet under him, takes a hitching step, then another, and another, grits his teeth and forces himself to keep going, faster,  _faster_.

_"He won't have you back, Fenris.  Not so long as I breathe."_

They survive the ambush against all odds.  They survive it together.


End file.
